


In For a Sickle, In For a Galleon

by Le_Me



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Diagon Alley, Drama, Fluff and Crack, Fred Lives, Fred Weasley Lives, Gen, Humor, Illegal Activities, Inappropriate Humor, Ministry of Magic, No Romance, No Slash, Post-Hogwarts, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5708872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Me/pseuds/Le_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Fred aught to keep his mouth shut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In For a Sickle, In For a Galleon

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.
> 
> A/N: No slash, no pairings, all names and places are canon. AU Post-war and Fred is alive and well. Don’t forget to review.

George considered himself a rather observant individual, but even he had to admit defeat every once in a while. He had been looking at his twin for the past 2 minutes trying to collect clues on the type of disagreeable object that had obviously lodged itself inside his rectum at some point in the past half hour; if the expression on his brother’s face was any indication, his best guess would’ve been a bludger covered in bulbadox powder.

“It’s really rude to stare.”

“Funny, cos I would’ve said it was ruder to insult the customers of your own shop moments after they walked through the door.”

“Don’t start, you heard that guy’s patronising list of complaints as he walked in here _, ‘Young man, you do realise that the large display wand currently propped up near the entrance is at an acute angle meaning anyone could trip over it and break their necks. Don’t you think putting it in a corner out of everyone’s way would have been a bit **smarter?** ’_ to name but one. _”_

“Yes, and replying, _‘Personally, I can think of a better place to stick it,’_ amidst _other things_ , isn’t the best way to go about these things, Fred.”

Fred just smiled down smugly at the piece of parchment he was currently signing at the counter and said no more.

With a ‘Hmph’ George peeled himself off the stairs next to the till, and decided to make himself useful in the back room, and take an inventory – they were always running low on a few potion ingredients. He got halfway to the door when he noticed a small boy stood next to one of the shelves against the back wall of the shop picking up various products, and either shaking them, gripping some of the boxes too hard so they crumpled slightly or dropping them onto the floor, and putting them back on the wrong shelves either upside down or back to front. Stood next to him was the man who’d confronted Fred about the wand 10 minutes ago. He was watching the boy with mild interest out of the corner of his eye, not saying a word whilst taking frequent sips from the cup of filter coffee in his hand, and disdainfully nosing over a batch of mood changing contact lenses, tutting every once and a while. George could smell a migraine on the horizon.

“Excuse me Sir, but I couldn’t help noticing that your boy here is rough-housing our products slightly, and I’d appreciate it if he could be a tad gentler before something gets bro-“

SMASH!

At that moment, the large glass display globe containing a fully functioning Quidditch team - complete with real tiny bludgers powerful enough to crack the glass from the inside – shattered on the wooden floor, spilling sky, grass and screaming Quidditch players all over.

“-ken,” George finished, meekly.

“Whoops-a-daisy, Cecil,” said the man, glancing lazily down at the boy. “Did that toy fall on you? Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.” He looked up at George. “I’m sure the _nice_ man understands an accident when he sees one.”

“Accident or _no_ , I’m afraid you’ll still have to pay for it, sir,” George said in a pleasant tone of voice. “That item can’t be repaired.”  
  
The man looked up, and laughed. “I nearly injure myself on the way in here, get lip from the till boy, and now am expected to pay when one of your wares breaks of its own accord? I don’t think so.”

The boy began chasing the tiny screaming players around with his foot, and giggling, leaving George pursing his lips at the father, and _praying_ that Fred hadn’t noticed.

“Kids,” said the man in a distracted, offhanded sort of way. “Anyway we’d best be off, I’m sure you’ll want to see to this mess. I imagine you’re used to cleaning up after innocent children, especially with all the shoddy shelving going on around here.”

A voice piped up behind George. “Indeed, we _are_.”

Fred had noticed.

“But even after all the experience…” Fred looked down at the child, and the child looked up at him. “…I find it’s still hard to get their blood out of the floorboards.”  
  
Cecil’s eyes widened, as George closed his slowly.  
  
“Although, I’ve noticed that when the items _they **break**_ get paid for…” Fred walked around George and leant against the shelf where the broken dome was oozing spectators into the floor gaps, shifting his gaze to the man’s eyes as he smiled sweetly dangerous. "...There’s no need to appease the God of Retail with such _innocent_ sacrificial lambs such as they.”

The man’s face contorted into an expression that only one who is so aghast they can hardly react, can muster.

George knew he had seconds.  
  
“What I believe my brother was _trying_ to say,” he said, quickly swooping in between them before they really would be trying to lift blood from the floorboards, “is that all of our shelves have anti-falling charms placed upon them so if an item does topple off it can only be due to it being removed by hand, prior. And I’m afraid that it’s our policy for shoppers to pay for items that have unfortunately become broken in their handling if, like this item, they cannot be magically repaired. ”  
  
The man bristled. ”This is outrageous, that thing was labelled at 70 galleons or something-“

“79 galleons, 12 sickles, and 19 knuts, actually.”

“-and you expect _me_ to _pay_ when it rolls off a shelf?!”

The raised voices were starting to draw a small audience in the form of various shoppers, although many were keeping their backs towards the action in an attempt to appear at least partly uninterested in the precedings.

“Ofcourse not, sir,” said Fred in a neighbourly fashion, “that’d be _outrageously unfair…_ except for the circumstances in which your kid does the rolling then, yes, the bill does automatically land on you.”

He glanced down at Cecil. “Unless you _are_ in fact over 17 and I’m just being size-ist.”

The kid, if possible, looked even more shellshocked.

“Here I was under the impression that ‘the customer is always right,’ but from the amount of disrespect I’ve seen here today…” The man walked right up to Fred until they were nose to nose. “Suffice to say that I could give you _hell_   for this, you know.”

Out of the corner of his eye, George was clearly visible mouthing the word, ‘DON’T’.  
  
But Fred threw all hell to the wind, and ploughed forth. “Sorry sir, we only accept gold as legal tender.”

* * *

  
 Twenty minutes later saw the man finally depart a very quiet Wheezes’ with his son, a few expletives lighter, and one cheque short.  
  
George was still shaking his bowed head, palms flat on the counter.

“Hmph, tosser. Coming in here with an attitude problem,” Fred muttered as he wandered off towards the lab.

George raised his head in exasperation, mouth thin. “Well the good news is he won’t be coming in here anymore with an attitude problem since he’ll not be coming back at all.”

“Good, don’t like his ilk in here; if I wanted a smarmy twat to tell me how to do my job I’d go visit Percy.”  
  
George followed Fred into the backroom - watching as his brother sat on a stool, and began lazily examining a small frothing potion - before stopping, and pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I seriously still can’t believe you said that to him, though.”  
  
“I said a lot of things you’ll have to be more specific.”  
  
George glared, and reiterated, ”' _I could have you people sued! Large heavy glass balls nearly falling on customers, children! And those disabled, like myself, with ongoing back problems!’_  
  
_‘Well sir, walking around with your head up your arse all day is bound to cause long term damage._ ’”

Fred eyes twinkled with barely surpressed mirth. “Oh, that.”

“I know he deserved it but you need to be more careful! What if he’d been a Ministry official from the Department of Trading Standards and Consumer Welfare or an inspector from the bureau?”

Fred scoffed.

“They’ve been upping their game in recent times,” continued George, raising a determined eyebrow, “especially since the war.”  
  
“Ah come on, those inspectors are a push over,” said Fred, leaning back on his chair. “If ol’ Florean Fortescue could chase one out of his shop, and down Diagon Alley – all the while pelting the bloke with ice-cream scoops just because they threatened to close him down for not wearing a hair-net – and get nothing more than a slap on the wrist for it, then I’ll not be losing any sleep over some verbal fencing.”

George's stern expression loosened, and he rolled his eyes in amusement. “Unlike us, Mr Fortescue had way more friends in significant places than we do.”  
  
His grin became wider. “And anyway, I heard the only reason they let him off was because he had dirt on the guy that inspected him. Apparently went to pick up his milk order from the dairy farm, and the farmer and ‘im caught this complete stranger _in flagrante delicto_ with one of the stock.”

Fred looked appalled.

George let out a, “Heh,” and leant against the counter. “Hair-net my arse, probably took one look at the guy when he came in, and something clicked.”

“Who told you this?” said Fred.

“’Dung. Said he used to have a good rapport with Flo’, and heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

“Pfft,” scoffed Fred, “how appropriate.”

“The amount of time he was in the ice-cream business, he probably had all those cows named. He probably took it personally.”

“Yeah, well, poor Betsy.”

They smiled wistfully.

“God I miss Florean.”

“Sticking it to the Man-“

“-and most of the shop fronts-“

“right ‘til the end.”

The potion made a sound like a ‘bulp’, flopped a bit, then went still.

“Wanna sack off work and go get a sundae?”

Fred recoiled in melodramatic exasperation. _“Lecturing_ me on my behaviour, then _rewarding_ the behaviour with ice-cream? Parenting 101, Porgie, you’re giving me mixed signals here.”

George smiled wryly. “S’alright, I’ll just smack your bum later.”

“Promises, promises.”

George grabbed a jacket from a chair, and tossed into Fred’s face as they burst into the main shop.

“Later Verity!”

“No parties while we’re gone!”

“Be in bed by 10!”

They flounced over the threshold, smirking, while she rolled her eyes and went back to her magazine.

“Tandem ice-cream, I love being the boss.”

“ _Co-_ boss, Sonny Jim.”

Unbeknownst to the chattering redheads walking down the lane, a lone figure watched from across the way periodically scribbling down short passages, and striking various boxes on a piece of official looking parchment, all the while tutting coyly, and taking frequent sips from a cheap cup of filter coffee.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm aware I have many fics to update, and trust me they're not getting abandoned, but I just had to get this idea out of my head before I could get cracking with the others. Stay tuned for more.


End file.
